


A Fever Wakes

by quixotesque



Series: Undisclosed Desires [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 21:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14005392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/pseuds/quixotesque
Summary: “This,” he murmurs into Erik’s ear, low and measured, “is where I would ask you to yield.”Erik spits out a defiant, “I’ve never yielded my entire life.”“I believe you.”“You think you about to make me?”





	A Fever Wakes

**Author's Note:**

> So this was meant to be a fic where T'Challa gently doms the hell out of Erik, but it didn't quite go that way. Might turn it into a series, if time allows it. 
> 
> Many thanks to the darling Sparrow for letting me yell at her about it. x
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

When his schedule permits it, T’Challa still spars with the Dora Milaje in the palace’s private training grounds.

It’s a calming process, his thoughts narrowing down to just the flow of their little battles, the next kick and strike and jab, all like a song he knows the rhythm to.   

The teeth of his Panther suit sit around his neck, but he forgoes activating it tonight and fights wearing the day’s clothes, feet bare and vibranium staff in hand. Okoye and Ayo dart around him, their spears a glinting, moonlit whirl above their heads. Aneka is crouched close to the ground, waiting patiently for a moment to attack.   

T’Challa is rolling out from beneath Okoye’s swipe and disarming Ayo to aim her staff at Aneka when he catches the sounds of footsteps, distant and soft at first but by the time T’Challa turns his head, Erik is at the doors, flanked by his usual guards.

He’s dressed in what has become typical fashion for him: dark trousers, dark boots, a long robe carelessly perched over his shoulders, open at the front and exposing his scar-dappled chest. There’s no mark, no telling, that T’Challa had once driven a blade into Erik deep enough to kill – Shuri’s skill does not allow for it.

Now they are several weeks on from that day and have come to something of an armistice. T’Challa’s power shields Erik from both imprisonment and a lifetime of servitude in the mountains; in exchange, Erik builds where he’d tried to destroy, lends his knowledge towards things that would not end in blood and fire and more scars on his body.

T’Challa’s decision had won him no praise from the Taifa Ngao or much understanding from his own family, but he does not hold it against them. He does not ask anyone to forgive Erik. Some days, T’Challa is not sure if he can manage it himself.   

Hands casually tucked into the pockets of his trousers, Erik raises an eyebrow at them. “You guys having all the fun without me? That’s no way to treat a prince.”

Okoye's eyebrows pinch together in firm displeasure and T’Challa intervenes before the look can translate into a scathing retort. “If you wish to spar, I still have some time to spare.”

The Dora Milaje would do it themselves if T’Challa asked, but he spares them that. One of their own had died at Erik’s hand and T’Challa had heard Okoye’s angered yell, had attended the burial where he’d seen the sorrow beneath the Dora’s stoicism, their eyes wet even if their cheeks had remained dry. He has no intention of forcing them to bear Erik’s presence beyond what is necessary.

Ever dutiful, Okoye says, “My King, we can stay and assist you.”

“Yeah, king,” Erik throws in, “they can stay and _assist_ and I can assist right back.”

“I am more than enough to handle you,” T’Challa reminds him. “Leave us for now, Okoye.”

Okoye’s mouth is an unconvinced line, but she strikes her spear against the ground twice and the Dora turn as one unit, marching past T’Challa with their usual harmony, taking Erik’s guards with them.

Erik watches them leave, his mouth wearing the arrogant curve it calls a smile. T’Challa deftly throws his staff at Erik and Erik grabs the weapon at the last second, gaze darting back to T’Challa, smile vanishing.  

“You’ll need a weapon if you want to spar,” T’Challa says, seemingly innocent.

“Was I keeping you waiting, your highness?” Erik replies. “You mind if I don’t apologize?” He approaches with that swaggering walk of his and it is no surprise, really, that he is the son of N’Jobu, a son of the Golden tribe, when T’Challa can so easily see the panther in Erik’s prowling steps, his narrowed, watchful eyes.

In another life, they might have fought side by side, maybe even shared the mantle between them.

In this one, T’Challa reaches for another staff.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Erik’s robe falls down around his feet. He looks over his staff with mild distaste, perhaps wishing he could break it in half and wield it like a shorter blade. “You better thank your goddess there’s no waterfall for me to throw you over again.”

T’Challa’s lips twitch. He idly spins the staff in his hand in a quick circle. “Have you already forgotten how I nearly killed you and that was when you had the heart-shaped herb to help you?”

Erik no longer has that help, of course. Nakia had not been the only one to quietly save a nugget of the herb and while Erik had been unconscious in Shuri’s lab, lying so still it was as if he’d died anyway, a priestess from the Temple of Bast had withdrawn the sacred power out of Erik.

“Get that power juice taken outta you and we’ll go another round, see what happens then.”

“Of course,” T’Challa says serenely. “You’ll just have to wait for challenge day.”

Erik scoffs. Gaze intent upon T’Challa, he takes position. Despite the perfect stillness of his body, there remains a sense of perpetual motion to him, as if something seething always lingers beneath his skin, a tumult that refuses to calm.  

T’Challa wonders what it would take to finally make that tumult settle, but then Erik is leaping towards him with deadly precision and T’Challa returns to that place in his mind where only the fight exists.

Erik is economical with his movements, efficient but powerful, wielding a brutal grace that’s a far cry from the elegance of the Dora Milaje. The gift in T’Challa’s blood makes it easier to nimbly evade Erik’s strikes and weather the ones that land and so it goes, the clanging of their staves ringing out sharply until T’Challa’s tunic is sticking to his skin and Erik’s breathing is labored.

During a brief pause, T’Challa pulls his tunic up and over his head and he’s barely thrown it to the side when Erik abruptly drops his staff, charging in empty-handed like he needs to feel his hands doling out pain.

T’Challa abandons his own staff and lets Erik have the brawl he wants. The moment the opportunity shows itself, T’Challa takes him down, pressing up snugly against Erik’s back, hooking his feet over Erik’s thighs. A tight arm thrown around Erik’s collarbone traps him in place by the shoulders and T’Challa settles his other hand over Erik’s throat warningly. It’s not the chokehold T’Challa could easily make it into, but it is sufficient.

Erik thrashes within the hold, his fingers clawing at T’Challa’s arm, T’Challa’s leg, but T’Challa is the Black Panther, Bast-blessed, and his grip remains unbroken. “This,” he murmurs into Erik’s ear, low and measured, “is where I would ask you to yield.”

Erik spits out a defiant, “I’ve never yielded my entire life.”

“I believe you.”

“You think you about to make me?” Erik’s body is damp in his arms, damp with sweat and _hot_ as if the Wakandan sun left the evening sky merely to slip inside Erik’s skin. The scent of him is smoky and rich to T’Challa’s heightened senses. Entwined like this, he can feel the tension in the line of Erik’s shoulders and spine, in his thighs, and hear the mad galloping of his heart as he says, “You know what? Go ahead. Give it your best shot, king. See if you can.”

T’Challa feels something spike through him—a new sort of thrill.

He unwinds his arms and legs from around Erik and Erik doesn’t hesitate in spinning around to try for another attack, but T’Challa takes that momentum and pulls them into a roll. They tumble over, the earth scraping at T’Challa’s skin, Erik’s elbow haphazardly knocking into his shoulder.

They grapple like untrained children, the finesse and skill of just a few moments ago gone. Erik’s knuckles glance over T’Challa’s cheekbone and T’Challa shoves a knee into Erik’s sternum and somewhere along the way, it happens without thinking, happens as if they’re both being guided by the same primal instinct, their mouths meeting suddenly in an ungentle crash of teeth and wet heat.

T’Challa groans from the shock of it, Erik grunting out, “ _Fuck_ ,” beneath him, but the surprise isn’t enough to stop them or even slow them down, their lips working fast and messy, fighting in this, too, like there’s another mantle to be won here.

Erik’s mouth is barbed pleasure, the softness of it edged with stings from his teeth. He rakes his nails across T’Challa’s back without a care as if he wants to leave gouges behind, make T’Challa bleed so that he can keep the blood under his nails like a prize. T’Challa tolerates it briefly before one of his hands seizes Erik by the wrists and presses them down into the ground above his head.

It doesn’t deter Erik. His mouth remains impetuous and savage at T’Challa’s, and his legs twine tightly around T’Challa’s hips, thrusting up against him again and again, the short, sharp bursts of raw bliss between their cocks so immediate that it almost hurts.  

“Fuck,” Erik pants out, the first time T’Challa has seen him so breathless. He grins wickedly, yanks his arms in a futile attempt at freeing his wrists from T’Challa’s grip. “You _spar_ like this with everyone or am I just special?”

“I thought you were a neglected prince. Isn’t special treatment what you wanted?”

Erik laughs, a throaty, irreverent sound. The moonlight washes him out a little, makes his eyes seem darker and endless. “So is this how you’re gonna play it, huh?”

“Play it?”

“Gonna fuck me into yielding? Didn’t think that was your kinda thing, _cousin_.”

“Not that it is frowned upon in Wakanda, but I did not think it was yours, either,” T’Challa returns, punctuating his words with another shove of his cock against Erik’s, a sharp bolt zipping back up T’Challa’s spine. His blood is humming, rolling through him in a storm. All he can smell is the heady perfume of Erik’s arousal clouding up the muggy air between them and it wakes a ravaging hunger in him that makes him offer, “If you yield now, we can finish this somewhere more comfortable.”

Erik’s easily arrogant, “Nah, I don’t think so,” has T’Challa pressing down, pressing Erik’s hips to the ground, forcing a stop to their rutting, and Erik mocks, “What, giving up already?”

T’Challa says nothing. Just grinds himself into the space between Erik’s legs, slow, slow, slow. He watches Erik grit his teeth to suppress sound, but a choked sliver of a moan slips out of him anyway and T’Challa smiles, satisfied.

Erik tries to push up, grind back, but there’s little he can do with T’Challa trapping him, and he kicks his knees into T’Challa’s ribs instead, demanding, “Let me _move_ , for fuck’s sake.”

T’Challa ignores the brief flares of pain. “If you yield, I’ll let you move all you want.”

“ _No_. Fuck you, man.”

He attempts to break T’Challa’s hold on his wrists again and twist his body out from underneath. There’s a familiar vicious look in his eyes, one that wants to rip T’Challa into shreds, but his cock jerks against T’Challa’s belly, thick, hot, craving attention. His throat gleams, his chest heaves, and when T’Challa rocks his hips in again, Erik moans, kiss-bruised mouth falling open, his face revealing in pleasure a softness it cannot help.

It’s a strange sight to see on a man so dangerous, so jagged at the edges, but, T’Challa admits, not one that is disagreeable.

Candidly, he says, “I could keep you like this all night, just to see how good you look.”

“I’m not your pet,” Erik replies. The bite in his words is dampened by his heavy-lidded eyes.

“I never said you were.” T’Challa raises himself off of Erik just enough to slip his hand in between their tangled bodies, unfastening Erik’s trousers. “I would admire you,” he says, the rasp of his voice deep now, the desire coiled in his gut coiling even tighter. He reaches inside, curls his fingers around a satin-smooth cock. Whispers, “I would please and pleasure you.”

Erik jerks up instinctively, groaning, the wetness at his tip smearing against T’Challa’s thumb. He shakes his head even as his hips roll up towards T’Challa’s touch, chasing after the rough friction. “Didn’t sign up for this sappy shit. You always talk like this?”

“You do not like the idea?” T’Challa asks. He drags his mouth down Erik’s throat, tasting salt, and leaves it slicker with something other than sweat. “Do not want the King’s sole attention on you? Touching you?”

“I ain’t waiting ‘round in my room, just hoping for your dick ‘cause you the King.”

T’Challa licks back up and over Erik’s pulse, barely quells the impulse to bite into it, claim the wild heartbeat. His lips hover over Erik’s, tasting his breath. He eases his grip on Erik’s wrists considerably, enough for Erik to pull free, but Erik seems not to register it, his arms remaining where they are. “Yield to me and I’ll show you what I am.”

“You – you’ve forgotten who I am, if you think I’m yielding.”

T’Challa says, “But I haven’t forgotten.”

He says, “N’Jadaka,” soft and coaxing, a croon of that once secret name and perhaps it is cheating, but it is also immeasurably sweet to see the way Erik is surprised into shuddering at the sound of it, his cock growing wetter in T’Challa’s hand like his name in T’Challa’s voice has cracked something open inside of him and let it spill out. T’Challa’s own cock throbs with a deep, urgent ache that he adamantly ignores for the vision in front of him.

“Shut _up_ ,” Erik says in a strained, hoarse voice, snapping up with his mouth, trying for a bite at T’Challa’s lips, but T’Challa tilts his head back and Erik’s teeth clack down on nothing. “Shut the fuck up.”

T’Challa doesn’t. He strokes Erik faster, murmurs, “N’Jadaka,” as he skims his mouth across Erik’s cheek and nuzzles into the tousled dreadlocks close to his temple. “N’Jadaka, will you yield to me?”

“No.” Erik kicks a knee into T’Challa’s side the same time he bucks up into T’Challa’s grip like he can’t decide which one he wants more. “No. I won’t. I can’t."

"You can."

"I can’t.”

“You can,” T’Challa repeats gently, but the drag of his hand is ruthless, demanding. Erik sinks his teeth into his lower lip, trying to silence moans that won’t be silenced, and T’Challa tugs that lower lip free with his own teeth, licks soothingly over it. “Yield for me, N’Jadaka. Just for me. Don’t say no—”

“Fuck—”

“Say yes.”

“I – fuck, I—“

“Say it. Say—”

“ _T’Challa_.”

Hot and quick, Erik spills in T’Challa’s hand, his body going taut in orgasm and his face going soft, slack. Honest. He melts, beautifully languorous, into the ground, panting, shivering. There is no one else here, but T’Challa suddenly wants to hide Erik from view, hoard the sight of him sated for himself. The haze in Erik’s eyes, his sooty lashes and plush, tempting mouth—T’Challa would keep it all for himself, guard it more zealously than he’d guarded Wakanda and its treasures.

All too swiftly, reality returns and shoves a sneer back onto Erik’s face. He shoves against T’Challa’s lax hold and T’Challa lets him go without any resistance.

“I didn’t yield,” Erik stresses like he believes he needs to. “And don’t be thinking this changes anything between us.” He fixes his trousers rigidly and stands, grabs his fallen robe and stalks out into the darkness of night, the shift of his muscles angry. He leaves T’Challa there with a hand wet from Erik’s come, a back that aches from Erik’s nails, ribs that have felt the jab of Erik’s knees.  

Erik’s release dries across T’Challa’s fingers as he returns to his own rooms, cock heavy against his thigh. Falling back against his locked bedroom door, T’Challa takes himself in hand with those come-stained fingers, tugs roughly at his cock as he did at Erik’s and thinks of the softness he’d seen on Erik’s face. That softness that had seemed out of place and yet somehow was not. He comes with it still fresh in his mind.

T’Challa doesn’t know if it’ll ever happen again, though he knows that he wants it to. He knows now that he can make Erik not-yield beneath him again and again and again.


End file.
